Fuck the Poem
The pen is dead. I want nothing more to write. Never again hear the words scraping from the back of my mind, disseminating to someone’s ears, eyes and skin in order to seep through their veins clouding judgment forcing re-direction of their ideals.
For this mind to let me sleep.
Back before it burst forth, sucking the life from every cell in my being.
I would choose it.
To ignore each and every word,
for those tiny letters weaved together waste me.
Turning blood cold, wearing eyes through blindness.
Fingers tired, mind quickens, rushes empty.
Full once more, inspiring a torpor fueled contemplation.
Full yet starving, and silent.
The darkened doorway slams, shutting me out.
Weeping to myself, I walk, making nothing of my time.
Forgotten, evaporated hours turn dryly, unnoticed.
Changing empty months and years, drooling wetted picture frames.
Whilst I wither and grow old, it finds strength without me.
Ever laughing at my discontent.
Bitterness swells, bloating, ruptured pumping in bloodless veins.
This pen becomes decay.
Touching paper,
smoldering embers remain.
Ash cycles dust to the wind.
I have no where.
I love no one.
Am loved by nothing in return.
No direction.
Adrift in idle complacency.
The longer I sit and fester, the more verbal I become.
Find the self near destruction of all that surrounds me.
There is no doubt that I will burn it down.
Leave no trace of their image of me.
Only a new vision of something despicable and real.
The pen needs life.
Wants the blood to run like rivers through the canals of memory.
Yet I must drown for my share of time.
More than my share of heart’s destruction.
The claws scrape to break free.
Run mindless through death‘s wake towards her core.
Yet her cage holds strong.
Until the levee cracks.
Bursts open flooding the populace.
Swallowing each and every one.
Those at my feet equally with those above my brow.
All I want is freedom my mind,
which suffers in prison.
Of its own design.
For this mind to let me sleep.
Back before it burst forth, sucking the life from every cell in my being.
I would choose it.
To ignore each and every word,
for those tiny letters weaved together waste me.
Turning blood cold, wearing eyes through blindness.
Fingers tired, mind quickens, rushes empty.
Full once more, inspiring a torpor fueled contemplation.
Full yet starving, and silent.
The darkened doorway slams, shutting me out.
Weeping to myself, I walk, making nothing of my time.
Forgotten, evaporated hours turn dryly, unnoticed.
Changing empty months and years, drooling wetted picture frames.
Whilst I wither and grow old, it finds strength without me.
Ever laughing at my discontent.
Bitterness swells, bloating, ruptured pumping in bloodless veins.
This pen becomes decay.
Touching paper,
smoldering embers remain.
Ash cycles dust to the wind.
I have no where.
I love no one.
Am loved by nothing in return.
No direction.
Adrift in idle complacency.
The longer I sit and fester, the more verbal I become.
Find the self near destruction of all that surrounds me.
There is no doubt that I will burn it down.
Leave no trace of their image of me.
Only a new vision of something despicable and real.
The pen needs life.
Wants the blood to run like rivers through the canals of memory.
Yet I must drown for my share of time.
More than my share of heart’s destruction.
The claws scrape to break free.
Run mindless through death‘s wake towards her core.
Yet her cage holds strong.
Until the levee cracks.
Bursts open flooding the populace.
Swallowing each and every one.
Those at my feet equally with those above my brow.
All I want is freedom my mind,
which suffers in prison.
Of its own design.
